Flashmob
by Evenlodes Friend
Summary: When Sherlock turned up the first time, it ended in blows. This time, Sherlock is determined to prove to John that he needs him back. Inspired by the new Series 3 teaser trailer.


**Authors Note:** This idea popped into my head when I saw the Series 3 teaser trailer the other day, complete with 'Love Actually' and 'Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire' references. My apologies if I've got the syntax for Twitter wrong - I'm not a user.

* * *

Twitter Feed: **#sherlocklives**

**#sapiosexual:** _flashmob at following address Saturday 3pm prompt. Wait for taxi with white roses in window to find out the truth._

* * *

Text messages

**From G Lestrade:** _So what about the match Saturday?_

**From JH Watson:** _Yeah, come over, Mary is making chilli._

**From G Lestrade**: _Be there about 2.30 ok?_

**From JH Watson:** _Bring beer. Loadsa beer. You are going down, mate!_

* * *

2.44pm

It started with a single girl. Probably in her late teens, although it was hard to tell, because she was wearing a great deal of makeup, and her long curtain of hair was a very unlikely shade of claret.

'John?'

'Yeah, love?'

'If you can drag yourself away from the telly for a sec, can you tell me why there is a Goth standing on the other side of the road, staring at our house?'

Both Greg and John got up from the sofa, and stood beside her at the window. They all peered through the nets.

That was when the boys turned up. Three lads in Jack Daniels T-shirts, long greasy hair and floor-length leather coats. They assembled beside the Goth girl.

'Is this an emo convention?' Greg frowned.

John shrugged. 'It's definitely our house they're looking at, you think?'

A further group arrived, just a bunch of teenage girls from the local high school, by the look of it. One of them delved into her huge satchel bag and plucked out a lipgloss, which she proceeded to slather on nervously until her mouth looked like she had applied half a pound of lard to it.

The three of them stood there in relative anonymity behind the net curtains and watched as more and more people gathered. The age range widened. Mums with toddlers in push chairs and men in their thirties, groups of twenty-somethings and older people, all greeting each other with silent nods, all with a slight air of expectation and even, perhaps, excitement.

* * *

2.51pm

The pavement was full, and people had started to stand in the street, and between the parked cars. They watched as a delivery van trundled slowly past, edging through the crowd. The pundits on the sports channel were starting to get worked up about the impending kick-off.

'John, can you turn that telly off?' Mary muttered.

'Hazard to traffic,' John said, picking up the remote and waiving it blindly at the TV behind him. 'Someone's going to get killed at this rate.'

'Better get the road cleared,' Greg agreed, and pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket. He had just started to punch the keyboard when it bleeped to signal the arrival of a text message.

'Oh, fuck, you won't believe this,' he groaned.

John looked at him, eyes widening.

'It's him, isn't it?'

Greg passed him the phone. John read the screen.

**From M Holmes**: _Leave it, Greg. Let him have this one. Just this once._

* * *

2.53pm

The crowd was getting much thicker, filling the road now. Some were carrying placards.

'Sherlock lives!'

'We love Sherlock!'

And some just with the familiar silhouette, the flossy hair, the upturned collar, that stupid retroussé nose, and in some cases, even the bloody hat.

One or two fans were even wearing deerstalkers.

'That sodding hat.' John put his hand over his eyes. 'I don't bloody believe this!'

Mary hugged him.

'Can't you do something?' he appealed to Greg, who shrugged.

'Not if Mycroft doesn't want me to. You know what he's like. Besides, let's face it, if both of them are involved, something interesting is bound to happen. Why not see what they do next?'

'You were supposed to be my friend,' John snapped back.

'So was Sherlock, darling,' Mary pointed out, leaning against him and stroking his hair. 'Maybe Greg's right. See what they've got up their sleeves.'

'Thank you for your support,' John grumped.

* * *

2.57pm

Mary came down the stairs. She had been peering out of the front bedroom window.

'The whole street is full,' she said. 'Right up to the corner at both ends. Solid with people.'

'There's going to be a riot at this rate,' Greg said.

'There is if our bloody neighbours find out we're responsible! They'll flay us alive!'

'John, love, this is Islington. People don't flay their neighbours alive in Islington.'

Both Greg and John looked at Mary incredulously. Then they looked at each other.

'You gonna tell her, or shall I?' Greg said.

'Oh, forget I said anything,' she half-laughed in exasperation.

People were standing on the pavement right outside the house, separated from their property only by the low front wall, barely four feet from the window. Staring in.

'It's like Shaun of the Dead,' Greg said.

'Sherlockian Zombie Apocalypse,' Mary agreed.

'I think it is possible that the next person who gets flayed alive in Islington may turn out to be Sherlock Holmes,' John growled. 'By me.'

* * *

2.58pm

The sound of a car horn, someone trying to drive through the mob.

People suddenly looking up, at one end of the road, peering over the tops of others' heads, trying to see the approaching vehicle.

People started cheering.

* * *

2.59pm

A black cab pulled up right outside the house. It had a lavish bunch of white roses on the dashboard. John squinted and recognised the driver. It was Sami, a Somali refugee that Sherlock had befriended years back, a genial, wily, man with an unlikely addiction to foul-smelling Turkish cheroots which Sherlock had often scrounged and bought back to the flat to smoke, much to John's disgust. Judging by the enormous grin on Sami's face, there was no doubting who was in the back seat.

The door opened and a huge roar went up from the crowd, deafening the three of them even behind the window glass.

He emerged from the back seat, tall, dark, and with the collar of his familiar overcoat turned up. He raised one arm and took a salute from the crowd, who were screaming with joy at his arrival.

'Fucking bastard,' John growled. 'Fucking vain bastard.'

And that was when they noticed the large pieces of white card tucked under one of Sherlock's arms.

'Oh, holy fuck!' Greg squeaked.

'No!' John gasped. 'He isn't-'

'He fucking is, you know,' Greg said, having to put his hand over his mouth to supress his grin.

'What are you two on about now,' Mary asked them, clearly getting a bit irritated.

'One night we made him watch "Love Actually",' John said. 'To punish him for being such an arse about something. Can't remember what.'

'Remember the bit where the bloke tells his mate's wife he loves her with the cards on the doorstep?' Greg added. 'He really liked that bit.'

* * *

3.00pm

The crowd fell silent as Sherlock stepped up the short tiled path to the door and rapped sharply with his knuckles.

'I'll go,' Mary said, but John caught her by the arm.

'No. This is my mess.'

He went out into the hall and stood behind the door, trying to gather himself. The last time he had seen Sherlock, a week previously, it had ended messily. John went home with cracked knuckle bones, and Sherlock with a black eye. It probably was not the way the formerly dead detective had imagined his homecoming, but John felt he had it coming for putting his friends through it for three years. Yes, John had Mary now, but he wasn't going to let Sherlock off that easy. He had grieved. Really grieved. And it wasn't amusing to find out that his grief had been based on a trick.

Now he was looking at his formerly dead former friend through the dimpled glass of his front door, and his stomach was churning. Sherlock had brought half of London over to witness this little reunion. Outside, the massed fans were chanting:

'WAT-SON, WAT-SON, WAT-SON!'

Great, John thought. This is fucking great. As if throwing yourself off a public building wasn't enough, you have to resurrect publically too.

He put his hand on the latch, noticed it was very, very steady, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

* * *

A conservative estimate might put about two thousand people standing in the street when John stepped out in front of them. They probably were all holding their breath.

Sherlock held up his white cards.

Card 1:

I KNOW I HURT YOU

Card 2:

VERY BADLY

Card 3:

I UNDERSTAND THAT NOW.

Card 4:

BUT I COULDN'T LET HIM KILL YOU

Card 5:

SO I LET HIM KILL ME INSTEAD

Card 6:

I'D DO THE SAME AGAIN IF I HAD TO.

Card 7:

TO KEEP YOU SAFE.

(At this point, John became aware that someone in the crowd had started humming the carol, 'Silent Night', just like in the film. Other people were taking it up, and now they were all singing, softly, gently. And whether they knew it or not, they were only twisting the dagger in John's heart. He felt his eyes sting, and fought the tears back valiantly. Because he was going to stay furious, dammit, no matter what it took!)

Card 8:

I KNOW YOU GRIEVED.

Card 9:

I KNOW I HURT YOU. (Sherlock repeating himself, John thought. He _must_ be upset.)

Card 10:

I AM SO, SO SORRY.

Card 11:

I MISSED YOU.

Card 12:

I MEANT IT WHEN I TOLD YOU

Card 13:

YOU ARE MY ONLY FRIEND.

Card 14:

AND NOW I KNOW

Card 15:

THAT YOU ALWAYS WILL BE.

Card 16:

PLEASE FORGIVE ME?

* * *

The singing stopped as Sherlock let the last card fall to his side. There was a deathly silence. John looked into Sherlock's eyes. Those strange almond eyes, green and blue and grey with flecks of gold trapped inside them.

Behind John, a familiar voice spoke quietly.

'You need him, John. Come on, darling. It's time to let it go now.'

Clever, clever Mary. Easily the equal of the man in front of him, any day.

* * *

'I should knock your teeth out,' he said.

Sherlock nodded. 'You should.'

'Again.'

'Yes,' Sherlock agreed.

'How's that eye?'

'It hurts.'

'Good.'

'Yes.'

'You are complete and utter sadistic fucking bastard, you know that?'

'Yes.' Something flickered in those eyes. Just for the briefest of moments. Was it desperation? Was Sherlock about to plead?

'You know what else?'

'What?'

'You may be a complete and utter sadistic fucking bastard, but you're _my_ complete and utter sadistic fucking bastard.'

For a second, Sherlock's eyes brimmed. But he blinked hard, and the evidence was gone.

'Yes,' he said, and there was a slight quaver in his voice. 'I am.'

Afterwards, it seemed to John he had always known he would give in. That he would fling his arms around Sherlock's neck and hug him. But at the time, at that very moment, there had been no inkling of it in his mind. It was entirely reflex.

Hugging Sherlock was a bit like hugging a tree. No give.

'Erm,' he said into John's neck. He didn't seem to know what to do with his arms.

Meanwhile, the crowd went wild.

Then Greg pushed past them onto the street.

'Come on you lot, bugger off, this is going to be awkward enough without you lot watching!'

Which provoked an enormous cheer.

'So, are you going to invite me in to meet your lady wife?' Sherlock asked, with a cheeky grin.

Normal service resumed, John thought. Arsehole.

'Not the wife,' he said. 'Couldn't get married yet.'

'Why not?'

'Been waiting for the Best Man to show up.'

Sherlock hesitated on the threshold, and looked into John's eyes. And that was when the reserve between them finally broke.

'Oh, John,' Sherlock breathed.

John smiled, a deep, fond smile and felt, as he did so, his soul exhale all the pain he had carried with him for so long.

* * *

END


End file.
